More Snow?

Awww man...This is getting silly.

Go away crazy weather...At least it's pretty.

Stop and Smell the Roses.

In a recent entry about giving a name to our little old house, I thought about it. Aside from it being a little strange to name one’s house (unless it’s a big mansion) it may appear unusual that one vacation to a country can contribute to the official ‘naming' of our house. The country in question is Chile. The naming convention is mentioned here and the trip is mentioned here.

So..big deal. On your vacation, you stayed at a hotel near a street named “The Forest” in Spanish and you have a forest behind your house.

The truth is that the country (Chile) and our trip hold much more significance than a pretty place and a nice vacation. On our trip to Chile, the three of us (my mother, Aimee, me) experienced a lot more than just a vacation. I won’t cover these experiences, but I can illustrate with a story.

In late 1993 (when I was 22), I went to Chile for a Study-abroad program. I was placed to live with a family while I studied Spanish and other courses. There were five Cancinos and me: the father Jose Antonio, the mother Domi, Pancho (19) Gonzalo (16) and Pablo (11).

The Cancino family looked at me as if I had just stepped off a shuttle arriving from the Planet of the Ferengis . Early on, I may as well have been from this planet (except much better looking than a Ferengi). The Cancino family made observations on everything about me: how I ate, what I wore, how I sounded in Spanish (muy mal), etc. My initial reaction of the Cancinos was that they were a family with teenage boys who really liked to annoy me, that they were very close with each other, and that they had a great sense of humor. I soon learned that I, this weird strange foreigner who burped and ate a lot, was not so much of a curiosity, as much as I was a diversion. I don’t mean a diversion like a fun activity, but this definition: a turning aside (of your course or attention or concern). The attention or concern was the father, Jose Antonio, who was dying of liver cancer.

Dying of cancer? Where is this story going? I want to be entertained! What the heck? Don’t worry, Reader.

Jose Antonio was dying of liver cancer. All efforts until this point had failed. They tried so many things. Jose Antonio and Domi had even traveled to Cuba to visit Doctors to see what they could do. The only recourse left was a liver transplant. The only place this had been done (in Chile) was the Military Hospital. The historical survival rate for liver transplants at this hospital was fifty percent. The situation was grave. By the time I arrived, hope was minimal. I got the feeling they were just waiting.

I also learned there was another son, Joselo, who was the oldest of the four boys, aged 22..same age as me. I learned Joselo had left the family just three weeks before I arrived, understanding that he may never see his father again. The reason that Joselo (the oldest son who all of the other boys idolized) left, was because of love. He had fallen in love with an American Student. She had to go back to the University of Indiana. He didn’t want to let her go. He didn’t. He proposed. She said yes.

But how could he leave when his father was dying? He could leave because of what his father told him. He told his son: You have to live your life. If you and she are to spend your life together, you cannot wait for me or anything. How do I know this? Because the father and I used to go for walks and we’d talk. I remember these walks very well. Here I was, walking with a man jaundiced with cancer, and he would remark about the beauty of Spring roses. This is one person who was literally able to stop and smell the roses.

Uh, hello? What part of “entertained” do you not understand? I told you not worry so relax, Dear Reader.

Someone else had arrived in Chile around the same time I did. This person’s arrival was also a return. He was a Chilean Doctor who had spent the previous four years at the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota. For four years he had been practicing expertise in the procedure of transplants: liver transplants for patients with cancer. Two doors down from the Cancino family lived another Doctor (working at the same hospital where the Mayo Clinic Doc now worked) who learned about this arrival/return. The neighbor mentioned this to the Cancinos and told them that he’d put their name on a list. If Jose Antonio could live long enough, he would be the candidate for the FIRST EVER liver transplant recipient in a private hospital. With a liver transplant, you obviously need a donor. In 1993, the idea of donating organs (in Chile) was relatively new and not widely accepted, due to its strict Catholicism. They had a Doctor, but needed a donor. The waiting now became a race.

The family kept a packed bag at all times. This was in preparation for the call from the Hospital. The call: someone has died whose family has agreed to donate organs, so come to the Hospital now. There were false alarms. The real call came. They scurried off to the hospital. Then, we waited anxiously during the first 24 hours after the procedure which were the most crucial. Survival. Cautionary hopefulness. TV cameras. National News Broadcasts. Reporters. Phone calls. The first liver transplant in a private hospital in the History of the country was a success.

The story reads: Feliz retorno a casa de abogado trasplantado.

Happy return to house of transplanted lawyer.

The rest of the story is as it should be: uneventful.

Soooo, when we went to Chile in 2006, our first stop was the Caninco home. By then, another son was in the U.S., so our reunion was limited to four members of the Cancino family. The other two live in the DC area though, so I wouldn't be suprised if this latest reunion wasn't our last.

During our reunion we talked a lot. They told the story about how I ate all the food one night, that was meant for everyone (honestly don't remember). I reminded Jose Antonio about his love for music from the 1950's. We didn't talk about the subject of this post, at all. There was no need.

Happy Valentines Day

Love

PEACE

JOY:

Of The Forest

Many people own homes. Usually, the home is associated with the street number or street name. Some may also associate their home by the neighborhood. When we hear of homes with actual names, we think of large palatial estates with fences and long driveways. We think of surnames preceded by a Von. We think of obnoxiously large abodes where the owner's bathroom can accommodate like 37 people. As for me, I don't think I'd like to share a bathroom with 36 other people, so I am happy Aimee and I have a small one. We're lucky like that. Anyway, even though our home is smaller than a big home's bathroom, we gave it a name. We're not necessarily practicing for a big mansion, but it's fun. You have a problem with that, you keep it to yourself..

When we moved in, we thought about naming our home for fun. We were excited to have a home to call our own (or the bank's). On the day we closed, Aimee actually bought a bunch of paint and painted our whole living room. Anyway, you get the picture... Ultimately, we didn't come to the name as much as the name came to us...Onward.

First let's review some well known homes that have really spiffy names:

There is Donald Trump's home, Mar-A-Lago:

Next, we have the famous Hearst Castle

And if you remember the 80's, you must know Falcon Crest:

We decided on the name of our house based on an overlapping and pleasant reminder: where our home is situated and where we stayed during our memorable trip to Chile. Behind our house, are woods, also known as a forest. When we went to Chile, we stayed at a hotel in a beautiful part of Santiago where the closest, large Avenue is called "Avenida El Bosque." The word bosque is Spanish for forest.

No more Mystery:

Lost in the Forest:

Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig
and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:
maybe it was the voice of the rain crying,
a cracked bell, or a torn heart.

Something from far off it seemed
deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth,
a shout muffled by huge autumns,
by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves.

Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel sprig
sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance
climbed up through my conscious mind

as if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood---
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.

-Pablo Neruda